


(Whisper) If You Love Me

by dvrling



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman: Thrillkiller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Burnplay, F/F, Fisting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 18:42:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8811889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dvrling/pseuds/dvrling
Summary: Still in some clean-looking establishment on Gotham’s east end, Joker says (--Bianca Steeplechase says), “That’s good, Batwoman, you were supposed to punch me. Now, you’re going to join me in my dressing room, so we can talk.”





	

Still in some clean-looking establishment on Gotham’s east end, Joker says (--Bianca Steeplechase says), “That’s good, Batwoman, you were _supposed_ to punch me. Now, you’re going to join me in my dressing room, so we can _talk_.”

“Dressing room,” Bruce says.

Joker rights herself, and fixes her hair.

“Uh, huh. I need a place to make myself look pretty for you, right?” She waves her hand, gesturing to the bar. “I own this whole joint, you know, but I figure my room is more _private_.”

Bruce stares at her, like she’s trying to make sense of a motive, or something. From what she can tell, there is none.

“Well, if you’re not going to say anything intelligent, let’s go,” Joker says. She grabs Bruce’s wrist. “Come on.”

Joker guides her to a plain door backstage. No star, no name, no label. She opens it, and pulls Bruce inside. Bruce is presently and consistently impressed by Joker’s strength. Although she is half Bruce’s size, and more conventionally attractive, she is no less intimidating.

The room is nice. It has neat white walls, with some contemporary paintings, and racks with expensive clothes. There are green, unlit candles on a coffee table, like Joker’s hair, and red flowers, like her mouth.

It’s a little dark, lit only by the light bulbs in Joker’s vanity mirror-- built into a wall adjacent to the room’s entrance. She walks over to it. “Please, please, sit down,” she says.

Bruce closes the door, and sits on a black leather couch near it, with a low back and soft cushions. She pushes her knees together.

“So what’d you think of my song?” Joker says.

Bruce makes a disapproving noise, and says, “You emote too much.”

Joker laughs through her nose as she taps out a cigarette from a case on the table.

“I don’t emote. Theatrics are your thing. Placing yourself _just so_ , precise, terrifying, with an element of surprise. Almost like ballet,” she says.

“That’s strategy.”

“It’s staging.”

Joker flicks the switch on her lighter a few times, and tilts it to the side, to get the last of the butane. She lights her cigarette, then flips the lighter’s lid closed, and puts it back on the desk. She lowers herself into her seat, and spins it around to face Bruce, with her legs crossed.

“I know you’re probably sore about those men I sent to fight you. You know I only do things like that because you’re better than they are, don’t you?” Joker says.

“Right. You do everything out of love.”

“Right, Batwoman, right,” Joker says.

Joker has told Bruce, again and again, how much she loves her. It is a clammy and suffocating sort of love.

Joker slumps in the chair. She looks at the ceiling, half-disappointed, half-irritated.

“So you didn’t think the lyrics were a little risqué?” she says.

Bruce clears her throat. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

Joker blinks, and straightens her back. “Oh,” she says. “ _Oh_. So I go through all that effort of getting you in the mood, and you don’t care. That’s great. That’s really great.”

Bruce heard her just fine, but she can’t help saying, “What?”

“In the _mood_ , Batwoman,” Joker says.

As far as Bruce can recall, this is the only time she has been so obvious and the only time she has been so blasé. It’s been a slow progression, like freeze-thaw. Well, kind of slow.

“Look, I’m sorry. It’s not your fault you’re an emotional cripple. You’ve always been like this. I know how that feels. I should have known to be more direct,” Joker says.

God. What a bitch.

Bruce is aware that Joker has crossed the floor and is pushing her against the couch, because the cushions make a hiss of air as she falls back. And she’s aware that Joker is mounting her, because she feels strong thighs on her hips, and she _feels_ Joker. Maybe that was why she wore the dress.

(It’s a gorgeous thing, really. It doesn’t restrict her movement, and the side slit exposes her leg. Smooth and white, like the rest of her.)

She pins herself against Bruce, with one hand propped up, holding a cigarette, which smokes grandly. She feels around, and runs her hand over muscle.

She starts kissing Bruce. Bruce thinks, This is serious. She and Joker are alone, and she’s almost enjoying it, so it must be serious.

Bruce always thought Joker’s mouth was her best feature. While she wasn’t really ashamed, it wasn’t the type of thing anyone would ask about, except for Joker. Figures she would want to live up to that standard like this.

Or maybe she was doing it to get to Bruce. That’d be funny. Not too serious. Not too heavy, like her kissing.

Joker stops, and smiles, and Bruce feels a little nauseated.

Joker hoists herself up and starts to take off her panties, but she stops, and looks at Bruce. Her makeup is still perfect. That’s all Bruce can think about. Her lipstick hasn’t feathered. Her mascara is intact.

She removes Bruce’s glove with one hand, and pushes back the gray sleeve of the Bat-Suit. She’s so deliberate that Bruce doesn’t think of stopping her till she feels the four hundred degree burn of a cigarette cherry above the crease of her arm.

She tenses and tries to lock her arms, to force Joker off, but the pain makes her feel shocky and ineffective-- it’s _just_ the pain. Not that it shows. She can only push at Joker’s thigh, with one hand, and without her whole effort. She doesn’t want to speak until she’s sure she can keep her voice level, so she bites the inside of her mouth and goes rigid under Joker’s touch.

Joker picks another spot down Bruce’s inner arm (in that cool way of hers-- always predatory, but never animal), and presses the stub to skin. It hurts more than the first time, because Bruce is watching it happen.

She needs something to hold on to. She feels light and unreal. With the arm that doesn’t sear from the burns, she reaches for Joker’s face, and grabs the top of her styled hair, stiff with lacquer and parted evenly. She runs her fingers through it, and tries to get a hold, pulling Joker close to her.

She tries to claw _pretty_ white face with her nails. Hers aren’t like Joker’s, though: they’re trimmed short, and plain. Not yellow-green and shellac-shiny and sharp as hell. Grotesqueness of that kind is reserved for Joker and for Joker alone.

“That’s good,” Joker says. She flicks away her cigarette. “Try to hurt me. Try to scratch me.”

Bruce goes still. Joker scoffs.

“I’m getting another smoke,” she says.

She leans back to swing her leg onto the ground, but Bruce grabs her waist. Joker laughs, low and catlike. She rubs her knee between Bruce’s legs, and Bruce sighs. The muscles in her shoulders are tight like cords. She orders herself to ease up.

“Batwoman, do you want me _inside_ you? Is that it?” Joker says. She twirls her wrist. “I’d tear you to strips.”

And she would, with those nails. Bruce doesn’t care. In actual fact, it would make the experience more positive. She would better associate pain with their flings. It would feel better. And she’s already in a lot of pain.

How obscene. Bruce is swamped by fantasies of those nails clawing her open, for her own pleasure, when they’ve murdered several innocents. And that mouth, too. How many has Joker killed with those poisoned lipsticks, of hers? Bruce’s want is pasted over with fact. It’s mental decoupage.

Then Bruce thinks about how this does no one any harm, but herself. The nausea dies in her chest.

Her utility belt makes a clicking noise as Joker undoes the hook. Joker pulls down Bruce’s tights, and Lycra underthings, and Bruce has the weird urge to laugh hysterically. 

Without fanfare, or lubricant, Joker is inside of Bruce, and Bruce has to make an effort not to move her hips, or gag.

She focuses more on how cold Joker’s hand is, than the feeling of fingers in her sex. Bruce feels the sting of nails scraping, softly, and she aches, and swoons, and opens her legs, just a little bit more.

Straight to satisfaction, straight to getting what she wants, Joker presses at Bruce with all her fingers. It hurts, enough to make Bruce set her teeth, and almost shiver. She doesn’t let herself shiver.

Bruce imagines herself, as a cadaver on a slab, being forced to purge blood, while the Joker watches, or something.

Joker fucks her hand in arrhythmically, and the thought evaporates, or becomes stagnant. Bruce really _does_ want to kill her. Maybe that was the point. She groans, closed-mouth, and lets it fall into a sigh.

“Joker,” she says, and Joker giggles, a strange sort of two-beat noise, and quickens her pace.

Bruce wants to grab her wrist and force her in, deeper; deep enough to tear something out and make Bruce bleed. If she isn’t already. Make her go pale, and make her orgasm like a scalpel drawing down to her center. She wants Joker to be violent, and desperate, and wholly _hers_.

Joker tears that something out of her, and Bruce has to clench her jaw to keep from screaming, and push her feet down to keep from kicking, or shaking.

Joker examines her hand. There’s no red, just wetness, which Joker licks off her fingers like icing. Bruce feels a throb between her legs, and sweat under her cowl.

She feels wired and ill. She wants to be left alone, in the silence. Just for a few minutes. She looks at her arm, absently, and wonders how the burns will look in the next week, or next months. They’re a nasty red, like needle abscesses. They still hurt.

She wonders how she’ll feel, tomorrow. If she’ll feel anything, or drift. An empty vessel. She feels like most of her organs have been forcibly removed.

Joker hums, interrupting Bruce’s chain of thought, and says, “Open wide.”

Bruce hadn’t noticed her grabbing another cigarette. She says, “You’re a scum,” because it’s true, and she’s tired.

“I said, open your mouth.”

And Bruce says, with genuine interest, “Steeplechase, how does this make you feel?”

Joker bites her lip. She’s still smiling, through the smoke. “Oh, I’m good. I’m really good.”

Bruce opens her mouth.

Joker stubs her cigarette out on Bruce’s tongue in one push, then twists it. Bruce’s mouth is dry, and she flinches into the couch, and spits on the floor.

“That’s attractive,” Joker says.

She leans down, and kisses Bruce, before making a noise from the hollow of her throat. She points at Bruce’s arm.

“Apply some antiseptic, dress it up, and have a _mint_ , or something, too. You taste like a Goddamn ashtray.”

“I don’t have mints,” Bruce says soberly. “I don’t normally need them.”

“You don’t--” Joker says. “You know what? Never mind. I believe you.”

She fumbles in her vanity table drawer and grabs two tin- and colorfully-wrapped packages, and a small metal box, and puts them in Bruce’s hand. They’re assorted mints: Altoids, Certs, and Mentos. She grabs a bottle of Bactine, and gives that to Bruce, too.

“There you go. Set for life.” 

Bruce doesn’t need the Bactine. She has enough to fix herself up in the Cave, somewhere. Probably in a medicine cabinet. But the burns will heal well enough, on their own. She thinks, Maybe I should wear them around. A reminder of tonight.

Joker waves, and says, “Now, out. On your way.”

That is it. No love. Bruce fixes her suit, and starts to leave. She stops in the door frame, and looks back at Joker, who is quietly watching her. Her lips are curled into a thin smile. Bruce takes a breath, steps out, and closes the door.

**Author's Note:**

> [title src](https://youtu.be/ADRLFQv1-Is) but i was listening to darling nikki on repeat while writing this


End file.
